My daughter had the good fortune to be invited to a large event at the East Lake Commons co-housing community yesterday. This unique community blends private housing, shared facilities and community involvement, and is anchored by a huge field in front of a pond and five-acre organic garden (or is it farm? When does a garden become a farm?) The event was under a big white tent in the field, as the dew sparkled in the early-morning sun.
I had four hours to kill and spent them exploring. First stop, the Oakhurst Community Garden, just because I'm madly in love with it. Fall crops fill all the beds, the labyrinth is finished and the earthen playhouse is almost done, and a bright red Radio Flyer tricycle sat waiting for its next rider amidst the buttefly bushes.
Second stop, a Greek tavern in Oakhurst Village where I intended to buy coffee but then saw Arden's Garden's Supergreen juice and suddenly it was no contest.
Third stop, Cabbagetown, a revived neighborhood of old shanty houses that are now adorably restored and where I finally visited that cute mercantile (yes, I must call it a mercantile because it reminded me of the Olsons' shop in Little House on the Prairie), Cabbagetown Market, where I bought free-range eggs from just over the Alabama border because my kids claimed the organic eggs I bought from the store "had something wrong with them. Their yolks are too yellow and their shells are too thin."
Fourth stop, the Historic Oakland Cemetery, where I visited the grave of Margaret Mitchell, who wrote Gone with the Wind. Did you know she died at only 49 years old?
Fifth stop, Grant Park, where the majority of members from my CSA live, although I never see them. So I saw the porches of their friendly craftsman bungalows and towering Victorian houses and imagined them facing the same, "What do I do with all these delicata squashes?" question as I face.
And finally, back to East Lake Commons, where I arrived a little early, much to my daughter's disappointment.
"I'll walk around," I said. And she knew what that meant. That meant Mommy was heading to the farm.
And there I was, crouched in a field of the most beautiful broccoli I have ever seen, interplanted with tall, happy snips of buckwheat. The distant din of the party drifted away, and a red-tailed hawk circled over me, trying to decide if I was prey or not (I prayed I wasn't!). As I was snapping away with my camera, I realized I had been caught. Not by the hawk. By Daniel.
Daniel Parson, the farmer of this land, Gaia Gardens, had just returned from the Morningside Farmers market, wearing his Georgia Organics long-sleeved shirt with the carrot on the front. We somehow quickly got on the topic of our mutual problems with Seeds of Change (don't even get me going on my fall order--the hairy vetch is all that has shown up and the numerous phone calls I've made have done nothing to make me a happy customer). Johnny's Seeds, Daniel told me, was the way to go. For what it's worth, gang, he is about the fourth farmer who has told me this. Perhaps it's time to change.
I asked Daniel how he could grow such gorgeous crops right now, in this drought, and he pointed to the pond, which the community calls a "weir," a new word for me (it is a dammed part of a stream). The water level of the weir is quite low, and the community is gathering to work on improving it on Sunday. Today, actually. After the tent and the bongos and the guitars are gone. And the celebrating is done. Then, the work begins. Because the future of the farm depends on it.
And so today I think about how the Oakland Cemetery has signs all over it with big arrows pointing people to the graves of its famous "residents." Golfing Great Bobby Jones! Mayor Maynard Jackson! Gone with the Wind Author Margaret Mitchell! And I think of all the small gestures throughout a life that add up to a life worth remembering. How the good folks of East Lake Commons are working together to fix their weir. How Daniel, the son of a long line of Missouri farmers, has chosen to farm organically although many members of his family are involved in agribusiness. How a woman in nearby Alabama named Evy has free-range chickens so that we can enjoy thick-shelled orange-yolked eggs again. How a community garden can feed stomachs, hearts and souls. How a small shop on a small street in a small neighborhood can change lives. And how a city like Atlanta can rise from the ashes, preserve houses and land and relationships, and produce such wonders.
"As God is my witness," Scarlett O'Hara said, "I'll never be hungry again." From your pen to God's ears, Margaret. And with Daniel and Evy and Arden and Johnny on our side, there's hope.
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